


Viking Bikers from Hell

by englishable



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishable/pseuds/englishable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his lewd reputation, Darcy would have to think he’d wear an outfit that looked easier to take off. How does he even get out of it? Crack fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viking Bikers from Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This was a written as a request for a friend; it was in response to the delightful word "gymnophoria," meaning "the sensation that somebody is undressing you with their eyes." The one problem with these two is that I have a nigh-impossible time getting them in a room together, so half of this takes place shortly after “The Avengers,”while the other half is in some highly-unlikely rendition of “Thor: Ragnarok.” 
> 
> It’s a somewhat loose interpretation of the prompt, but I still had a lot of fun with it. So, have something context-less and wacky.

…

According to the unimpeachable authority of Wikipedia, the man on Darcy’s newsfeed is also known by the names  _Loptr_  and  _Hveðrungr,_ both of which sound a lot like somebody trying to hock a lugie. He is first mentioned in several thirteenth-century Norse eddas, killed one of his relatives with a branch of mistletoe, will play a pivotal role in the impending apocalypse, and has done it with a goddess, a giantess, and a horse.

(The horse was apparently part of some bizarre plan to scheme a building contractor out of his due pay. Which seems like kind of a dick move, but that’s pretty much mythology in a nutshell.)

But what Darcy really wants to know is this:

How the hell had he gotten that outfit off every single time?

She keeps coming back around to the question, if only because his megalomaniac leather-bound ass appears in every newspaper and television broadcast and magazine for weeks after the invasion of New York. 

The pictures have mostly been taken from odd angles, blown up into pixelated messes, all the contribution of amateurs who’d managed to catch sight of him before Thor hauled him back to the Land of Oz.

Best are the story headlines, which Darcy starts clipping out and stashing in a folder as the months pass. Some even come from the university thesis archives, updated faster than information services can catalog them:

_“You Will Always Kneel: Creating a Psychological Profile of Earth’s Newest Enemy.”_ _“Viking Bikers from Hell: One God’s Triumphs, Failures, and What It Means for Mankind’s Theological Future.”_ _“Take Me to Your Leather: Discovering Twentieth-Century Influences in Current Asgardian Wardrobe as Evidence of Modern Historical Interaction.”_

She turns one of the clearer pictures over a few times, on occasion, squinting at the keen, forward profile and that oil slick of hair. The skin seems strained around his eyes and temples, like somebody used to working in dim light.

And it’s a weird costume, Darcy has to admit. 

It’s a stupid amount of brass studding, on top of straps that don’t seem to be strapping anything in place and zipper teeth that don’t look like they zipper anything shut. 

(She doesn’t think the Norse had zippers, though, so maybe that’s not what they are.)  

Okay, but for purely speculative purposes: those forearm guards seem to close over his sleeves, so they’d be first to go. Darcy can at least spot the braces that hold them in place. And the pads on his shoulders look like they’re connected to that coat he’s wearing, the straps running under his arms, so those would have to be unbuckled next.

Off comes the coat with its swallow-tails. Achievement unlocked. 

The plate on his chest looks like a separate piece of the armor, and it’s probably meant to lift over his head. But where do all those straps connect? If there’s no zipper, then what?  Clasps, laces? Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black, with silver buttons down the back?

And once you undo all those claps-laces-buttons-whatever, there’s going to be that green robe – or is it a tunic? – that shows through the leather in bright cuts and slashes. 

(This is all bypassing the impossible complexity of his boots, by the way. That’s a problem for another day.) 

Then, finally, after all that work, what next?

Darcy would think he’s probably smooth and pale underneath, like a candle, which would fit with the image of those violinist’s hands: except someone leaked a security tape from Stark Tower last week – probably Stark himself –that caught the whole throw-down with his brother on film.

Definitely not smooth, then. 

Probably all sinew and ropey shoulders instead, with blue veins going up from his hands into his arms, and –

Her own common sense usually intervenes by this point, like being snapped between the eyes with a rubber band. 

Eventually Darcy throws all the clippings away, folding each one up into squares before dropping them in the trash.

Weirdo. 

…

And several years later, while the world is being lame and attempting to end in some deeply unpronounceable -  _Rag-on-Rocks_ , maybe - last hoorah, Darcy takes the opportunity at hand to find out. 

(At hand in a figurative sense, that is, since she’s actually got both hands on the wheel right now.)  

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“No,” the god in her passenger seat snaps. He’s got a golden spear – Gun-gear? Gunga-din? – laid across his lap. “Just now I’d like you to try and make an effort at not killing us, Miss Lewis. Thor would have me kept in one piece until he has no more use of me.”

“Relax, Equus. My uncle took me mud-bogging when I was a kid. One time, he even…Oh, hold on.” 

She knocks the truck into first gear, cocks the wheel, and stabs her foot on the throttle. Its rear wheels spin violently around in time to avoid a house-sized piece of debris.  The action flings him against a window. 

“I thought I told you to put your seat belt on,” Darcy says. “Didn’t you see that ET sign back in the parking lot?”

Loki yanks the strap over his chest and jams it into the buckle. It clicks shut with blithe cheer; the sound fits itself into memories of seventy-two hours that have thus far involved fire giants, frost giants, serpents, a ship made entirely of bones and fingernails, and some pissed-off jackass named Surt.

And, of course, the cheery traveling companion next to her.

“Thanks –  _now_  can I ask you something?”

She goes off the road and bounces across a section of cornfield to get around the upcoming intersection, which is opening into a sinkhole. 

Loki presses his lips flat over his teeth. 

“Yes! Yes, you damnable hoyden! What  _is_ it?”

“How do you get that outfit off?”

She’s got her eyes on the driver’s side mirror, and that massive black storm front advancing across the horizon behind them, so she doesn’t get to see his face. 

Going by the scandalized tone in his voice, that’s a crying shame.

_“Excuse me?”_

“That outfit!” she shouts again, above the rattling gears. “It looks like you’re sewn up into it! How do you take it  _off_? I mean, if –  _Holy shit!”_

A Mudspell Meanear – a  _Muspell Megir,_  she’s been corrected several times,  more commonly known as a fire giant – comes striding out of the field, snapping telephone poles in a rain of sparks as it steps to bar their way. Its skin is crisped black inside the flames covering its body, its open throat a white furnace as it roars.

Darcy has just enough time to realize that they’re not going to avoid it, and to think wistfully and oddly about a bag of fries she’s left unfinished in her fridge, before the thousand-year-old semi-immortal man beside her smashes the passenger window out with his elbow. 

He unclips the seat belt, hoists his torso up through the broken window, and raises that golden spear in one arm.

A stream of light erupts from its point, scything through the giant as Darcy veers between its legs. Black blood and smoldering guts spatter the windshield while the body falls in cleaved pieces around them.

Loki sinks back into the passenger seat again. Bits of ground glass cling to his hair. 

“…Nice.Ten points to Slytherin.” Darcy slaps her wipers on. Something that looks like a piece of spleen goes flying. “So are you gonna tell me, or what?”

Loki runs one of those narrow, spidery hands down his face. It leaves a black smear on his cheek, and he grits his teeth before speaking. 

“If we live through this, Miss Lewis, perhaps I’ll give you a practical demonstration instead. Would that appease you?”

Darcy shrugs, reaches up to adjust the rear-view mirror. 

The cornfields are catching fire, and lightning pulses inside that black thunderhead about five miles behind them. Jane’s equipment clanks together in the back seat. 

For a second she considers making a joke – something about pony play, possibly – but that seems kind of rude right now, even when you’re talking to a guy who tried to take over the world and doesn’t pay the servicemen on time. 

(And her chances of living through this look slim to none, so it’s not like she’s making any commitments.)

“I’m free Thursdays,” Darcy answers. “Now see if you can plug in my iPod. I’ve got this playlist that’ll go great with a car chase.” 

…


End file.
